


S'mores

by roselew



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Fallen Castiel, Fluff, Food, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-12 14:15:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/812504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roselew/pseuds/roselew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes they didn't know how to spend their holidays. Sometimes, they did, and it was perfect. (Written pre-finale)</p>
            </blockquote>





	S'mores

**Author's Note:**

> written from the prompt: 'write something centred around marshmallows. bonus points if they end up being melted at some point.'
> 
> More rushed and less kinky than you'd probably hoped, Prompter, but hopefully my attempt at breaking this writer's block will be appreciated nonetheless.
> 
> I love you all for reading <3

They rarely had time off, especially over the last few years, what with the apocalypse, heaven, hell, and everything that came along with it. Even when they did have days off, it’s not like they even really did anything. Mostly their ‘vacations’ consisted of looking for more cases, waiting for more deaths, more demons, more of the same. Occasionally, on their longer breaks from the job, they’d find something to do, see a game or visit Bobby, but only occasionally. Dean could count on two hands the number of times they’d felt safe enough to lose their focus without worrying about Lucifer emerging from whatever stinking shadow he’d hidden himself in.

Things were different, now. The gates of hell had slammed shut a while ago, sealing the demons inside and that on its own was almost too good. Sam had been…broken for a while, sat in bed trail-weakened, spasms forcing blood to come choking into his lungs and out of his mouth, pupils narrowed to adrenaline-narrowed dots and skin permanently slick with sweat. Castiel had helped him, when he was around. It wasn’t often, but the occasional visits were always coupled with a touch to Sam’s fevered skin that would quell the nausea, send him into a fitful sleep that was better than most he’d have without the angel’s help. Dean could only relax in these times, often resting himself, though he’d rather be spending what time he could with Castiel, since he was gone so frequently.

The decision to close heaven down hadn’t been the well thought-out affair that Dean had hoped for. With Sam barely recovered and Castiel still rogue, the choice was almost entirely on Dean’s shoulders, and, at the end of it, he chose what any man tormented by angels would do. Heaven had ended with a surge of energy, static and ozone – something the news explained as a solar storm or some shit. The call had come only hours later, a number Dean had figured was dead after so many of his attempted calls had failed. Castiel’s voice was rough, cracked halfway through his response to Dean’s panicked “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve – heaven’s gone, Dean. The host, everything. You-,”

He’d taken a breath, seemed to collect himself from his anxiety.

“I’m fallen, Dean. The gates of heaven. You – You closed them.” It wasn’t a question, Dean swallowed his wide-eyed guilt. “I got shut out.”

It was a fumbling, awkward process trying to get money to Cas for the trip back, and then a tense few hours waiting for him to arrive safely. He was…dishevelled, to say the least. Coat hanging from one shoulder, hair ruffled as if he’d been tugging his hands through it. He looked tired, Dean realised, eyes heavily shadowed and a few hours later, having coaxed an unwilling Castiel to share their food and tugged the coat from him when he was too tired to do it himself, Dean stared at the angel asleep in Dean’s bed, his brother snoring a few feet away, and hoped he hadn’t messed everything up for his best friend.

Turned out, he hadn’t. After a few days of quiet contemplation, sulking about sleeping and eating and bathing (none of which, Dean assured him, were optional), Castiel moved onto complaining. It was too quiet, too cold, too small down here. He felt lost without his wings and his grace and constantly reminded Dean how stupid human bodies were with their constant needs. Eventually, after a month or so of acclimation, Castiel conceded to humanity. Sam took him clothes shopping, and though it was dirty and damaged probably beyond repair, the trenchcoat was folded into the trunk of the impala, and there it remained.

It took a year to sink in, Dean concluded. There were the regular nasties: vamps and werewolves and once a giant octopus in a swamp in Texas but nothing to make them fear like demons and angels did. Castiel proved to be adept at using firearms but preferred blades (the idea of having a ‘favourite’ unnerved Castiel. The day he realised that the colour green was the one he liked most was a day best not mentioned.) Truth was, the three of them could go for weeks without a case serious enough to warrant the journey out and they were at a bit of a loss of what to do in the meantime.

It was Sam’s idea – Of course it was, he’d always been the one that wanted a home and a garden and a fucking dog. It was an old two-storey in South Dakota, more yard than house and cheap because of how shitty it was. But Sam was in his element, repainting and remodelling, and Dean didn’t have it in his heart to stop Sam from getting a job at the department store nearby, eventually found his own at a garage two streets away. Just like that, they had a home. A broken, mouldy old home, but a home nonetheless.

It was some day in November; seven months and counting since they moved in and Sam, after constant hard work, had made good work on the place. Hell, Dean liked it so much here that he even agreed to let Sam get a dog – a bone-thin thing from the pound and Dean asked Sam if he could at least have gotten a dog that wasn’t on death’s door. Whatever Sam’s reasoning behind getting this particular animal, it was clearly right. Plenty of food and attention saw him grow thick-set, loyal to the end, and after he saw off an eager thief that visited in the small hours, Dean decided he liked the dog a lot more.

The dog sat with them now, on its side on the coolness of the grass, the heat from the fire enough to keep the chill away. Sam was at its side, long legs stretched out, leant back on one arm, toasting a marshmallow on the pointed end of a stripped stick in the other.

Cas was cross-legged, barefoot, his jeans ragged at the ankles, grass-stained at the knees. The green of his shirt was similar to three other pairs he owned. He held his own marshmallow cautiously, having burnt two already, and missing out on the s’mores as a result, had left him almost desperate to get it right – though apparently not desperate enough to accept Dean’s help. Dean was assembling his third s’more, fingers sticky with sugar and resin from his too-green sapling branch. This was something Sam and Dean had done only once, briefly. A half-faded memory on both their parts, and an experience that Castiel had missed out on entirely. The concept had bemused him (almost as much as the idea of iPods or pornographic books), but apparently seeing it first-hand was enough to change his opinion. Dean watched as he pulled his marshmallow from the fire, snatching up the biscuits from where he’d left them on his lap and gingerly pressing the components together, trying, and failing, to wipe the melted chocolate and marshmallow from his fingers.

Castiel had shown a tendency toward sweeter food, so Dean wasn’t surprised to see he enjoyed it. He smiled, nonetheless, maybe staring as Cas tried not to get the food anywhere but his mouth but still managing to smear chocolate over his lower lip, catching the drop of melted marshmallow before it could escape the corner of his mouth. Dean heard Sam snort a laugh at the mess Cas made, and Dean took a drink of his beer to hide his smile that was more fond than amused.

Sometimes they didn’t know how to spend their holidays. Sometimes, they did, and it was perfect.


End file.
